


Half-finished Bridge

by takadainmate



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takadainmate/pseuds/takadainmate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scenes to 2x13 <i>Dead Reckoning</i>. </p>
<p>John and Harold can't go home yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half-finished Bridge

He watches Harold watching the smoke and flames, red and yellow reflected in glass. Sirens wail somewhere below them, sound distant and muffled and John imagines none of it can touch them. For just this moment nothing can reach them because despite everything Harold came to save him. 

They need to get out of here. Half the police force has to be crammed into the streets surrounding them, and then there’s the FBI. The CIA. Agencies with acronyms less well known. Agencies without names. Not looking for them, John thinks. Hopes. But there just the same. Too close to Harold and all his secrets and John is not naïve enough to believe he knows even half of what Finch is hiding. And then there’s still the bomb vest strapped to his chest. 

Finch turns to him, doesn’t say anything, limps slowly back towards him and John doesn’t imagine all the ways this could go; dry humour. Irritation. Concern. Impatience. It’s a cold night and John welcomes the proximity whatever comes next. 

What he gets is Harold frowning up at him, doing up the buttons of his coat. 

He says, “We’ll never get anywhere with _that_ on display,” and then Harold has hooked an arm through John’s and is urging him forward.

There’s a door; not the one John walked through, breathing the night air and thinking it would be his last. This one is smaller, leading to a dark well of shadows. Harold mumbles something under his breath, pulls a flashlight from his coat pocket.

John raises an eyebrow. “You’re a boy scout now?”

“I learned from the best, Mr. Reese,” Harold replies and flicks the switch. The beam of light illuminates a steep, narrow staircase. John hadn’t considered how Harold had gotten up to the roof. It hadn’t been important at the time, just that he had and they were going to die together and that was the very last thing John wanted. All those numbers lost without Harold. Harold himself, gone, and no matter how many times he might try to tell John it wasn’t his job to protect him John would always be there just the same. 

It isn’t Harold’s job to protect _him_. 

They go down two flights, the steps beneath them crunching with broken glass. The air smells stale; no one’s come this way in a while and trust Harold to find an unused access route in the space of what had to be minutes. To anyone else, for any of the tech guys John knew in the agency, that would have been the feat of a lifetime. Half miracle, half luck. For Finch it was nothing out of the ordinary, routine. The least of what he was capable of doing. The stairs though, that steep, narrow staircase, that impresses John. If it’s difficult, if it hurts, Finch gives no indication.

At the bottom of the stairwell a small elevator waits with its doors open, dim orange strip lamp bleeding light into the hall. Harold switches off the flashlight, shoves it back into his pocket. There’s an open panel in the wall of the elevator, wires spilling out, copper stripped bare and twisted together. 

He follows Harold into the small space, not freight because it isn’t big enough and not passenger because the walls and the floor are bare metal. John can’t imagine what possible use it had served. It doesn’t matter, he guesses.

Harold reaches out towards the mess and wires and John stops him with a hand around his elbow. The fabric of his coat is rough, chilled. 

“Where are we going?” 

They’re still not safe. John has to get them out safe.

Finch looks at him the same way he always does when he thinks John is asking an obvious question. “The parking garage.”

“There’ll be cops.”

“Better than the front lobby.”

He isn’t wrong.

John lets go of Harold’s elbow, lets him go to work on the wires. He has a weapon and a reason to use it. The doors close, shuddering and slow, and John shoulders Harold behind him, raises his gun.

“That’s unnecessary-” Finch begins.

“Be prepared, Harold,” John says.

**

They take a circuitous route and Harold’s explanation is, “You’re wearing a bomb vest and I hacked the DoD.” 

John is tired; he can’t remember the last time he slept, but he understands the need for caution and follows Harold’s lead. He’s endured much worse for much less. 

They crouch through the parking lot and John is relieved that the cops aren’t paying much attention, not expecting anyone. It’s easy enough to avoid being seen, but John can tell the stooping and careful, quiet movements are a strain on Harold. He straightens with a grimace when they make it outside, through a graffitied door that John doesn’t think was Harold’s entry point. His limp is more pronounced as they navigate their way around police cordons, mingling with curious onlookers, frantic workers; white noise. John keeps his attention on Harold, on making sure they go unnoticed. He keeps his weapon within reach but out of sight. 

They spot Carter and Fusco in the crowd, heads close together, Carter looking unhappy. She has her phone in her hand. 

“She’s called several times,” Harold tells him, the corners of his mouth turning up into an almost-smile. They walk in the opposite direction, four blocks, and then John insists on a cab. 

Harold sighs in relief as he slides carefully into the seat and rattles off an address John is unfamiliar with. Neither of them talks the entire ride. Harold watches the driver with careful eyes and John watches Harold. The city outside is loud, filled with people; it’s Friday night, John remembers. Inside the cab is quiet. The driver hasn’t turned on the radio.

They’re dropped off in a quieter neighbourhood, more run-down, darker. John has some idea what they’re doing here.

As Harold pays the cab driver, gives his thanks, the driver takes in Harold’s expensive coat, his pristine shoes and straight tie and gives him a dubious look. He looks like he’s about to say something so John moves to stand beside Harold, straightens up to his full height. The driver gets the message, nods and pulls away. 

“People are going to think we’re involved in nefarious business if you keep doing that,” Harold says as he turns away.

John tries not to smile. “No one would ever think you were nefarious, Harold.”

Harold breathes out a laugh, a rare enough sound that John can’t help but grin then. They’re high on adrenaline, John thinks. They have to look ridiculous, walking along grinning at each other. John stays close, gives half his attention to Harold, keeps the rest for their surroundings. Eyes watch them; they’re strangers, out-of-place here. But then, maybe that’s true of everywhere now. Being this exposed makes John’s skin itch but Harold seems unconcerned so he lets it go.

He should probably ask where they’re going but it really doesn’t matter. Harold leads, and John wants to follow.

**

The temperature has dropped significantly since the roof top, or else John is only now starting to feel it. Either way, he shivers and Harold puts a hand on his arm. He must be cold too. They’ve been here, in this empty, wrecked carcass of a shop, long since abandoned and smelling of piss and rot, for an hour and they’ve only gotten half way towards removing the vest. 

“You should look in to hiring an ordinance expert,” John says, and Harold’s hand slips away, goes back to carefully coaxing out wires. 

“We can manage,” Harold says. “Though from now on I’m never going anywhere without wire strippers and pliers.”

Harold is using a penknife, sharp enough that his fingers are littered with tiny cuts where his hand has slipped, misjudged the resistance of the plastic wire covering. 

“I know what to get you for your birthday.” John smiles easily. “When is your birthday, again?”

Harold favours John with an unimpressed glance, goes back to the tangled wires. His hands slip under the vest, fingers smoothing down John’s shirt, searching. It’s distracting.

“Pick a date,” Harold suggests, so John says, “October thirty-first.”

Harold shoots him another _look_ but doesn’t dignify that with a response. His knuckles bend below the vest and John feels fingernails digging into his ribs. 

“You could just tell me if I’m wrong.” John carefully readjusts his stance; his legs are heavy, his muscles cramping. “There’s no need to resort to torture.”

“I found another wire, Mr. Reese, so if you would be so good as to keep still.”

“If I kept any more still I’d have to stop breathing.”

“Yes,” Harold nods thoughtfully in that way that makes it hard for John to work out if he’s joking or not. “That would be very helpful.”

“Sure,” John drawls, but he does shorten his breath. He can’t see what’s happening, doesn’t dare look down, but he can feel Harold’s fingertips drawing lines down his side, can feel knots of wires. Harold tisks, pulls on something that unravels something and then John does hold his breath. 

“When I began this,” Harold says, his voice tense. He might sound amused, if not for the imminent possibility of death by explosion. John will not look at him. He focuses on the boarded up windows, the detritus of squatters pushed up against the wall; empty bottles, smashed glass, soiled blankets. “I never imagined it would lead to dismantling bomb vests.”

John doesn’t know exactly what Harold means by when he began this; if he means building the machine, if he means employing John, trying to save the numbers. If he means something else, something earlier that led to Harold abandoning whoever he’d been before he took to false names and anonymity.

“What did you imagine it would lead to?” 

On the road outside a truck rolls past noisily. Long past the time the room falls quiet again Harold still doesn’t answer. Maybe there’s no answer to give.

**

Being out of the vest is like being free, unburdened, a feeling John can only remember from those times when he was three quarters of a bottle of cheap whisky down and the world had suddenly fallen into place in a way it never did when he was sober. If he didn’t think about the past, if he only thought of _having_ a future, then it was almost the same. 

Harold walks beside him, fingers tapping against the screen of his cell. It’s impressive, John thinks, how he manages to walk in a straight line without looking up once. A skill acquired from long practice, John suspects.

“Anonymous tip to Carter?” John guesses and Harold hums affirmatively.

“We wouldn’t want something so dangerous to end up in the wrong hands.”

Like the Machine. Like John. But when John glances at Harold he still has his eyes turned to his phone and maybe for once there is no other meaning beyond the obvious. Maybe Harold is as tired as John and has no patience for subtlety. He’s moving more slowly than John’s ever known him to, and he doesn’t think it’s just the distraction. So he flags down another cab and herds Harold into the back and Harold doesn’t protest. John gives an address as close to the library as he dares. It’s not the most comfortable place to spend the night John can think of to spend the night but it’s the safest and he assumes Bear will be there. 

It’s been a long time, John thinks, since he had anywhere as being anything other than a stop-gap en route to somewhere else. As safe. Whenever John catches the smell of old books, of dust and polished wood, he remembers the soft afternoon light catching on one of Harold’s screens and Harold muttering in annoyance under his breath and asking John to _please_ close the blinds, because John was the one to open them in the first place and he was _busy_. John hears the tapping of keys and Bear’s snores and these are all things that up on that roof John had thought he’d never know again.

But then Harold’s head snaps up, changes the instructions to the driver and doesn’t even bother giving John an explanation before returning his attention to his cell. In the rear-view mirror the driver raises an eyebrow at them and John nods.

“You know, Harold,” he says, “It’s generally considered impolite to invite yourself over to-”

“I won’t stay.” Harold waves a hand dismissively. 

“Then, what, you’re escorting me home?”

He’s still tapping away at his phone and John wishes Harold would _look_ at him. There’s something strange; something stilted about their conversation since they left the rooftop. An undercurrent of something John can’t put his finger on but feels like John’s lack of surprise at finding Harold there, waiting to save him. Feels like pointing a gun at Harold and knowing there was no possible scenario in which he would pull the trigger.

“It’s become clear to me,” Harold says, “that it’s unwise to leave you unsupervised for long. You really do have a knack of getting into trouble.”

The driver is watching them and John doesn’t much care.

“Then you’d better stay,” John finds himself saying before he even thinks about what he’s saying. He doesn’t even know what he’s asking.

Then Harold does look up and he shifts his whole upper body to properly meet John’s eyes.

**

John unlocks the front door to his apartment and his hands don’t even shake. He’s crashing; too tired. Too wired. They didn’t talk as they walked the four blocks to John’s apartment building. John’s hands had really started to feel the bite of the cold and he’d shoved his hands in his pockets and they hadn’t warmed up at all.

In the hallway, John turns on the light, takes off his coat and throws it over the back of a chair. Harold follows behind him for once and John thinks about taking his jacket or offering him a drink but all he manages is to make it as far as the sofa before his knees feel unsteady enough that John sits down. It would be embarrassing to fall down. Beside the couch arm, Harold hovers indecisively.

There are things he should do; drink, eat, sleep, file away Harold’s willingness to risk his life for John as something useful, something he could use. But mostly he wants to yell at Harold, to tell him he’s _not worth it_. The next time they might not get so lucky. Next time they might both end up dead and John doesn’t want to live with that fear, even though he knows he has to. This is the life they both chose.

And Harold is still standing awkwardly, leaning more heavily on his good leg. 

“Sit,” John says, and after a moment’s hesitation Harold does, carefully lowering himself down onto the seat beside him. The couch is comfortable; not overstuffed and not too hard and John runs his hand along the soft, white fabric of the upholstery and wonders how Harold chose it. He almost asks but when he looks over Harold is sitting stiffly, looking down at the palms of his hands where the skin around the small cuts from the knife is turning red, sore-looking. John reaches out and takes a hand, inspecting the damage, trying to draw Harold’s attention away. His hands are more callused than John had expected.

“I don’t think they’ll be fatal.” John tries to smile and it’s only then that he realises that he’s _holding Harold’s hand_. This isn’t them, John thinks. In all the time John has known Harold, it’s been impossible to miss the way Harold avoids physical contact; too much proximity and he’ll draw away. He isn’t trying to draw away now. Harold is staring at his hand in John’s and John can’t interpret his expression at all. 

“No,” is all Harold says and John imagines he’s thinking _but what he’d been defusing might have been_. Twice over. Fifteen times over. Every shift of wire and every cut Harold made. That whole time, John realises, he hadn’t really believed Harold would let them die; not there in that abandoned wreck. Harold was too smart, too quick to learn to let that happen. But maybe Harold hadn’t been quite so confident in his abilities. John can feel the fine tremors in Harold’s hand. Pale. His eyes slide away from John’s. Coming down after everything that’s happened and John knows too well the empty hollowness that can leave behind. 

Suddenly, Harold makes to stand, pulls his hand away and starts to say, “I should go-” but he overbalances, or was never balanced in the first place, and stumbles. It’s automatic to reach out to prevent him from falling over, to grab at Harold’s waist to steady him. 

Harold is still wearing his coat, layers upon layers of clothes. John has often wondered what he hides. To many things to even remember them all, John suspects. He isn’t so different; there are so many things John has seen and done and not done that he tries hard to forget. Under his hands, where they have found space between the fall of Harold’s heavy jackets and rest on the fabric of his vest, Harold’s shivering has become worse. 

“It was cold,” Harold reasons, but he’s holding tightly onto John’s forearms to steady himself. 

John nods agreeably and Harold shifts his weight, wincing. He looks to the door, back to John, trying to come to a decision. John won’t stop him if he wants to leave, but he’s not sure Harold will make it far if he tries. In honesty, John doesn’t want him to go, either. He thinks of this big, empty apartment that isn’t home in a way the library has become. Why he wants Harold to stay with him, why they’re here, is all because John doesn’t like the thought of being alone again, stewing in memories and old fears and more guilt than he can swallow.

Selfish, he thinks. Harold came for him, saved him again, and all John wants is to not let him go again. 

If he’s near, if he’s close, John knows he’s safe.

John looks at Harold and he wants too much. 

**

Despite the exhaustion, the way his muscles burn and every scrape and bruise pulls John somehow manages to haul Harold over to his bed, even though Harold protests the whole way.  
 “I’ll be fine on the couch,” he says and, “You’re the one who hasn’t slept in who knows how long.”

“Right now I could sleep on the floor,” John argues. He doesn’t say it, but he doubts Harold could without unpleasant consequences. It’s an easy task to set Harold on the edge of the mattress, and John doesn’t miss the relief on his face. 

Never one to admit such an easy defeat, Harold tries a different tack, and John would have expected nothing less. “I was going to work anyway.” He looks around the room, frowning. “If I had my computer. Where did I leave my computer?”

“You didn’t have it on the roof.”

“Ah. Yes.” Harold shook his head. “But I’m sure you have one around here-”

“What happened to yours?”

Harold looks up at John over the frames of his glasses. “I used it to hack into the DoD. I destroyed it,” he says, as though the answer was obvious which, John supposes, it is. He would have done the same, and had done. “But you could lend me-”

“If you think I’m carrying you back to the couch, Harold.” John shakes his head. “We need to sleep. You can work in the morning.” It already is morning, the sky outside turning a deep blue, tinged with red. The clock on his bedside table reads 5:03. 

John wants to sit, but he thinks if he sets himself down on the mattress next to Harold he won’t be able to get up again. 

He gets it; Harold’s reluctance to sleep. Despite the slump of his shoulders, the way Harold rubs at his eyes under his glasses leaving them red and bloodshot, John’s known too many nights like this, when all he can think is _I nearly died_ and _I could be dead right now_ and _No one would even notice_. Those times he’d run until his feet hurt, or he’d clean every gun in his arsenal until his fingers ached and all it had done was make him feel worse. 

None of it helps, though, because John doesn’t know what he can say to make it better for Harold. There’s probably nothing he can say. 

“I should have said before,” he tries anyway, “thanks for saving my life.”

Again.

But this time, John’s last moments would have tasted like regret if Harold had died for him; the one thing he wanted least in the world become real. 

Harold bows his head, looking away, the way he always does when John tries to thank him, as though he doesn’t believe he deserves the gratitude. But they’ve both made mistakes; done things they can never undo, and John wants Harold to understand that the chance he’s given him- the _chances_ he’s given him- make the weight of those mistakes a little lighter. He would want to give Harold the same reprieve.

“You would have done the same for me,” Harold shakes his head. John can see the reflection of his face in the line of windows behind him, and he looks troubled. Like he doesn’t like what he’s saying, doesn’t like the truth of it. All the time they’ve worked together, everything they’ve been through, John has always seen this resistance in Harold, this reticence to have someone care about him; to _care_. John reaches down and lays a hand on Harold’s shoulder.

“I would’ve,” he agrees. That and more if it meant keeping Harold safe. 

They’re silent for a long moment and John watches Harold’s eyes close and open again.

Harold is still shivering under his hand, so John pulls the neatly folded coverlet from the foot of the bed and wraps it around Harold’s shoulders. He gets an acidic look from Harold for his trouble but it’s more sleepy and exasperated than actually annoyed.

“I can look after myself, Mr. Reese,” he bristles, but doesn’t push the coverlet away. John returns his hand to Harold’s shoulder and Harold leans into the touch. 

This casual comfort has become natural, easy, and it is gratifying, the way Harold shies away from everyone else but turns toward John. How he relaxes now in John’s presence, the wary caution of when they first started working together turned to dry amusement, turned to Harold’s voice on the line telling him to be careful, asking him if he’s alright; turned to rescuing John from situations where there’s nowhere to run. From bomb vests on cold rooftops. 

John smiles and gives Harold’s arm a final squeeze because he wants to and he can. “I’m going to sleep,” he announces. Leading by example, he’d always found, was the best way to get anything done. 

There’s a thick throw John keeps on the back of the couch for nights when a bed is too much like stability and permanence and comfort and it’s a familiar thing to drop onto the cushions, toe off his shoes and pull the blanket over himself. He can feel Harold watching him.

His belt buckle digs into his stomach and John thinks he should have at least bothered to take off his jacket. He’ll regret it in the morning, but right now he doesn’t much care. 

There are two lamps on in the apartment and John reaches out, switches off the light next to the couch and lies back down to listen. 

For several minutes there’s nothing except for Harold’s quiet breathing, the hum of the refrigerator, a car passing by outside, somewhere distant. Then Harold sighs, long and, John thinks, exaggerated. The mattress creaks, there’s the sound of fabric against fabric and John imagines Harold laying down, getting comfortable. A click and the last light goes out, artificial yellow replaced by dawn red. 

John means to stay awake, to be sure that they both make it to morning, to wake up to live for another day. Maybe there’ll be another number. Maybe there won’t. But there will be Harold. The couch really is comfortable though and it’s been a long time since John remembers sleeping. His eyes are too heavy to keep open, he’s too warm, and John falls asleep to the sound of Harold’s soft snores and his own heartbeat.

**.End.**


End file.
